


Can You Hear Me?

by eirenical (chibi1723)



Series: Tumblr Prompt Meme [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Car Accidents, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Permanent Injury, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1784122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/pseuds/eirenical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre could feel his breath coming faster, shallower, thought somewhere in a detached, clinical part of his mind that he couldn't possibly be taking in enough oxygen, that he was risking hyperventilation if he couldn't slow it down.  But that didn't matter.  What mattered was that even though he could hear his own voice rising in pitch and volume with every word he spoke, Courfeyrac <i>wasn't answering</i>.  That same clinically detached part of his mind started whispering words like 'shock' and 'traumatic injury.'  </p><p>That didn't matter, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Hear Me?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frosthe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frosthe/gifts).



> **_June 14, 2014:_** In an effort to kick myself out of a severe case of writer's block, I reblogged [a prompt meme](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/88522446632/peekbelowthesurface-send-me-a-number-and-two) over on tumblr. When it became clear that I was too tired to write any drabbles that night, I put out a blanket offer for full fic to anyone who sent me prompts before I woke up the next morning.
> 
> Ha. Haha. HA. O_o;;; I got eight prompts that night. The first was this one, from a dear friend of mine who shares my enjoyment of angst and H/C. Once I had reassurance that heavy angst was OK... I went for it. And boy did i go for it. this is NOT a happy story, but it does have a happy ending, I promise. There aren't what I would consider truly graphic descriptions of injury, but I tagged the "graphic depictions of violence" warning just in case, because YMMV on something like that.
> 
> *coughs* Enjoy? ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/88764203442/82-combeferre-and-courfeyrac).

  
_Combeferre/Courfeyrac_   
**82\. Can You Hear Me?**   


"Courfeyrac? Oh G-d. Courfeyrac, can you hear me? Please… Please tell me you can hear me. Courfeyrac, talk to me!"

Combeferre could feel his breath coming faster, shallower, thought somewhere in a detached, clinical part of his mind that he couldn't possibly be taking in enough oxygen, that he was risking hyperventilation if he couldn't slow it down. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that even though he could hear his own voice rising in pitch and volume with every word he spoke, Courfeyrac _wasn't answering_. That same clinically detached part of his mind started whispering words like 'shock' and 'traumatic injury.' 

That didn't matter, either.

What mattered was that Combeferre couldn't even see if Courfeyrac's chest was rising and falling. He couldn't see anything past the crumpled dashboard and shattered glass; he couldn't move with the airbag and steering column pressing into his chest; he couldn't even reach Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac couldn't have been more than four feet away from him, but he might as well have been four thousand feet away for all that Combeferre could close that distance. Still… he had to try.

Though each inch he gained by shifting his upper body cost him in waves of agony, Combeferre moved inexorably closer. Inch by painful inch, he closed that gap until his fingers touched the back of Courfeyrac's hand. It was clammy, cold to the touch, and Combeferre nearly sobbed when there was no response to his questing fingers. His words had by then degenerated into a simple mantra of "Please, Courfeyrac, please, please…" but there was still no response. Forcing his hand back open, Combeferre released Courfeyrac's fingers, moved his hand deliberately up towards his wrist, terrified of what he would feel there -- or would _not_ feel there -- but needing to know just the same.

Combeferre shifted his fingers, desperately trying to get the right grip, to achieve enough pressure to feel for a pulse. For a moment… nothing. Pain clawed at his chest -- the agony of broken ribs which shouldn't have been moved combining with the agony of sobs held clamped behind now chattering teeth to leave him shaking. Still he waited. One second… two seconds… three seconds… four… _thump_. Combeferre's breath caught, his entire body freezing as he felt that soft flutter against the tips of his fingers. One second… two seconds… three seconds… _thump-thump_. One second… two-- _thump_. Then it was another six seconds before he felt that soft flutter again. Weak, thready… but undeniably there. Courfeyrac's heart was still beating. He was _alive_.

Combeferre's mantra of pleas tapered off then into soft, barely there sobs. There was a chance. If someone had reported the accident… if an ambulance was on the way… there was a chance. Combeferre kept his fingers clamped to Courfeyrac's wrist, unable to let go of that proof of life, those soft, butterfly brushes of pulse which had become a lifeline to them both. And for the first time since he was a child, on the off chance that someone was listening… Combeferre prayed. Not for himself. Not for the fool who'd run that red light straight into the passenger side of his car. For Courfeyrac.

"Please, Courfeyrac, please, please…"

"Please…"

* * *

When Combeferre next opened his eyes, it was to the harsh glow of fluorescent lighting reflecting off a room that was already far too white. The soft trill of a heart monitor was beeping steadily in his ear, slowly increasing in speed as Combeferre became more alert. When it reached a certain point, another beep started up, louder, deeper, more strident than the first. Instinct that would admit no weakness turned his gaze towards the relevant monitor, but he couldn't make any sense of either the numbers on the screen or the flashing alarms. What he _could_ make sense of was the figure in the chair beside the monitor which jerked out of its slouch at the sound of those alarms, red-rimmed blue eyes locking on his and widening. Combeferre knew this man. He knew him. Blue eyes… blond hair… _he knew him_. What was his name? He opened his mouth to ask but found himself choking on the tube stuck down his throat instead. The figure lunged forward as Combeferre began to thrash, caught at his hands as he instinctively reached for his mouth, as his throat nearly closed in panic.

Mere moments later there was another figure at his side, whispering words of gentle reassurance as he stroked a hand through Combeferre's hair. Eventually Combeferre calmed enough that the first figure said, "I'm going to let go of you now. Joly needs to check a few things, then, if all is well, he's going to get that tube out of your throat. But you have to stay calm for a bit first. Can you do that for me?"

Combeferre managed a short nod, and the blond-haired man released his hold on his wrists. As the doctor -- Joly, the man had said -- completed his exam, ran his tests, Combeferre struggled to understand. He knew them both, could see it in the brief memories flashing across the insides of his eyelids as he closed them -- images of the two men in other circumstances. They were friends. Valued friends. So why could he not remember the blond man's name? 

Ten minutes later saw Combeferre with the tube removed and propped up in bed with the first figure carefully feeding him small chips of ice. The cold was a welcome balm to his sore throat but nothing eased the teeming fury of his thoughts. Finally, when he could take it no more, he forced his voice out past the rawness in his throat. "Forgive me, but… who _are_ you? I feel as though I know you, but… I can't remember."

Those blue eyes widened further, and the full lips below them dropped open. Combeferre's heart thumped against his ribcage twice in rapid succession at that betrayed look. He wished nothing more or less than to be able to take those words back, then, as he realized how badly he'd hurt the other man… but there was no taking back words once they were spoken.

Eventually, the blond took Combeferre's hand back into his, gently ran his thumb back and forth across the knuckles. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, cleared his throat, finally got out, "I'm your best friend. We've known each other since we were children."

Combeferre gave the man's hand a gentle squeeze but shook his head. "I know that I know you. I do know that. Everything about you is familiar to me… but the whys and wherefores are all a blank. Maybe if I knew your name…?"

The answer came swiftly then, clipped and no nonsense. "Enjolras. Emile Enjolras." Those blue eyes narrowed as he spoke, as though he were watching Combeferre for any sudden sign of memory returning at his words. Combeferre would have liked nothing more than to be able to confirm that it was… but there was still nothing. The man's posture, those intense, narrowed eyes, the force of will Combeferre could practically _feel_ him bringing to bear on the problem… all these things were familiar but none was enough to bring memory forth. He sighed, shook his head.

They lapsed into silence then, Enjolras still gently stroking Combeferre's knuckles and occasionally feeding him chips of ice, but every attempt at conversation died before it even began… until Combeferre finally said, "It's clear enough that I've been injured, unconscious for some amount of time, but…"

Enjolras finished the sentence for him, and that was familiar, too. "…but you don't remember that, either?" At Combeferre's nod, Enjolras' eyes narrowed, his grip on Combeferre's hand tightened. "There was an accident. A drunk driver ran a red light, hit you on your passenger side. It's a wonder that either of you made it."

_~It's a wonder that either of you made it.~_

_~…a wonder that either of you made it.~_

_~…either of you made it.~_

_~…either of you…~_

Combeferre's breathing quickened, became harsh, nearly frantic, as those words echoed in his mind. There had been someone else in the car. He'd been driving and there had been _someone else in the car._ Someone had been in the passenger seat. Someone important -- as important as Enjolras, perhaps even more so. But who? Dimly, he could hear Enjolras begging him to calm down, finally yelling for Joly when the heart monitor began shrilling its alarm once more. Combeferre heard none of it, could make no response to Enjolras' or Joly's desperate questions, his lips too busy forming the word all but beating itself against the confines of his ribcage in its efforts to escape.

" _Courfeyrac._ "

The tears which instantly welled up in Enjolras' eyes were more than Combeferre could take. He couldn't ask after the sadness in Joly's eyes, either. He only cared about one person right then and it wasn't anyone in that room, not even himself. He swallowed hard against a throat gone dry, again, though this time from fear. "Courfeyrac was in the car with me. Courfeyrac was in the car with me. I remember-- He was hurt." When Enjolras caught at his wildly gesticulating hands, Combeferre shook him off then immediately reached out to grab a fistful of Enjolras' shirt and pull him close. " _Where is he?_ " When no answer was forthcoming, he shook Enjolras, " _Tell me._ Where is he?"

Before Enjolras or Joly could answer, a soft creak broke through the tense silence. Combeferre turned quickly -- almost too quickly, he thought as the room began to swim and his chest sent him a warning stab of pain. There was another creak, and another, soft sounds that moved closer to the side of the bed which Joly had just vacated. A subdued voice accompanied the strange sounds and Combeferre could have wept for joy when it spoke.

"Here, Combeferre. I'm right here. I'm OK."

A tall, slender man with short, light brown hair was standing behind Courfeyrac, had been the one who'd wheeled him into the room, and he was the one who answered the questions that Combeferre couldn't even get out past the force of his relief. "You've been unconscious for thirteen days. Courfeyrac beat you to waking up by almost a week. And the asshole who T-boned you is out on bail, awaiting trial. That should about cover the basics, I think."

Courfeyrac thanked the man -- Prouvaire, he called him -- then reached out to take Combeferre's hand in his and place a soft kiss on his knuckles. His voice was hoarse, nearly as rough as Combeferre's when he spoke. "You had us worried."

None of this matched with what Combeferre was slowly remembering of the accident. They'd been hit on the passenger side -- Courfeyrac's side. Courfeyrac had been unconscious, barely breathing, his lower body pinned by the crushed metal and plastic of the door and dashboard. In comparison, Combeferre's injuries had been nothing. Less than nothing. So why had Courfeyrac awakened first? Why did he seem so much less the worse for wear?

Combeferre wasn't aware that he'd asked those questions out loud until Courfeyrac brought his hand up his lips and placed a second kiss upon it -- in his palm, this time. He shook his head. "You had broken ribs. One punctured your lung. You were bleeding internally. It was touch and go for a while, so they told me. In comparison…" He let out a soft snort. "Let's just say that I was better off than you by far."

No matter how Combeferre persisted, Courfeyrac wouldn't answer in any more detail than that. He simply stayed at Combeferre's bedside, stroking his hair, kissing his hand, talking a stream of simple inanities, as though he understood that even the sound of his voice was enough to keep Combeferre calm. No one told him then that his health was still more touch and go than any of them liked. 

…there was a lot that no one told him.

Over the next week, Combeferre found that with returning strength came returning memory. Enjolras, Joly, Prouvaire, all were known and recognized -- the rest of his friends, as well. One of them wheeled Courfeyrac in to visit every day and all were much relieved at the improvement in Combeferre's health. But, it wasn't until Combeferre was struggling through his first session of physical therapy that it occurred to him that something there wasn't right. If his injuries had been as minor compared to Combeferre's as he claimed, why was Courfeyrac still wheelchair bound? No one would tell him, and he couldn't bring himself to ask.

Worse, though, was that the longer the days stretched on, the closer to full recovery Combeferre got, the more Courfeyrac withdrew from him. He would still come to sit with Combeferre, would still talk to him, still joke with him and share amusing anecdotes of the various doctors and nurses… but something was off. Combeferre could feel it. Gone were the soft gentle touches to which he'd grown so accustomed. Gone were the tender smiles that just barely lifted the corners of Courfeyrac's lips but still lit his eyes aglow -- smiles full of such love they took his breath away… smiles which were only for Combeferre. Gone were the sweet kisses that left Combeferre feeling as though he were drowning and learning how to breathe at the same time. If he hadn't had Enjolras' absolute reassurance that his memory wasn't playing tricks on him, Combeferre would have worried that he'd imagined their entire relationship in some fever dream. Instead he was left to wonder what he'd done to make Courfeyrac withdraw from him so completely and without explanation. 

In the end, it was Feuilly who gave in and told Combeferre what he wished to know. He had spent these last few weeks at Courfeyrac's bedside, much as Enjolras had done for Combeferre. He was the one who had listened as Courfeyrac poured out his own fears, came to terms with the extent of his own injuries, with what he'd lost…

Knowing that, Combeferre couldn't let it continue any longer. The next time Courfeyrac took his daily excursion to the courtyard, Combeferre accompanied him. They had to talk.

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Courfeyrac shrugged, his eyes flitting around the small garden, looking anywhere and everywhere except at Combeferre. Combeferre wasn't having it. Taking Courfeyrac's hands in his, he gave them a brief squeeze. "More importantly… Why are you pulling away from me?" That question at least prompted Courfeyrac to face him, eyes wide and startled, then narrowed in indignation. But before he could deny Combeferre's words aloud, Combeferre continued. "You can't tell me that that isn't what you've been doing. I'm not blind, nor am I unintelligent. I know you. I remember what we had. And this… this isn't it."

Courfeyrac swallowed hard, pulled one of his hands back out of Combeferre's grip to pull the blanket up a little higher on his lap. To his credit, he didn't deny it again. He simply said, "Because this is all we can have from now on."

Eyes narrowing and mouth pinching into a tightly compressed line, Combeferre said, "Explain."

"I can't… Combeferre, there's nothing… nothing _works_ , OK?" Courfeyrac gestured down at his legs with his free hand. "I'm dead in the water. I'm broken. There's no magic pill that will fix this, no wishing that will make it better. They did their absolute best to fix me and this was the best they could do." He thumped a hand on the arm of the wheelchair. "I'm stuck in this thing for good, OK? No more dancing, no more running… I'm going to have to relearn how to do every _fucking_ thing and you don't deserve to be stuck with that. It's bad enough that this is happening to me… it shouldn't happen to you, too."

Shaking his head, Combeferre brought the hand he was still holding to his lips and placed a soft kiss across the knuckles. "Is that all?"

Courfeyrac spluttered for a minute before finally exploding with, "Isn't that enough?"

"No."

"…no?"

"No."

Dryly, Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow and threw Combeferre's words back in his face. "Explain."

Combeferre lifted his free hand to cup Courfeyrac's cheek, ran his thumb along the arch of one cheekbone before leaning in and kissing him lightly, no more than a soft brush of lips on lips, but combined with what he said next, it was more than enough to get his point across. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Combeferre. That's why I can't--"

Another soft kiss. "I love you."

"Combeferre, I _get_ tha--"

Kiss. "I love you."

Courfeyrac huffed for a moment before scowling and opening his mouth to speak again… and never even got the first word out.

Kiss. "I love you."

After that kiss, Courfeyrac's scowl crumbled and a hesitant smile took its place. "You're just going to keep doing that until I stop trying to argue with you, aren't you?"

Combeferre answered that question with another kiss, deeper, longer this time, now that he sensed victory close at hand. When he pulled back he said, "I love _you_ , not your legs. I don't care what it takes to get you your life back, but I will be there for you every step of the way, however you'll have me. You're not going to shut me out of your life that easily."

Courfeyrac sighed, slumped against the back of the chair. Combeferre could just barely make out his muttering behind the hand covering his face. "Stupid, stubborn, _arrogant_ sonofa…"

Combeferre let him mutter, let him pull his other hand out of Combeferre's grip, let him push his chair back away from the bench and turn it down one of the paths, let him wheel himself away, still muttering, along the paths of the garden. It wasn't an easy thing Combeferre was asking. It would be hard on both of them and would doubtless get worse before it got better. It wasn't what they'd planned for their lives or their approaching marriage. It was nothing they'd wanted… but Combeferre could live with that. As long as he still had Courfeyrac, he could live with anything. And if Courfeyrac truly no longer wanted him, he could live with that, too… or so he firmly told himself.

When Courfeyrac finally wheeled back towards him his hands were clenched tightly on the rims of his wheelchair, his lips pressed firmly together, and his eyes were shuttered, revealing nothing of his thoughts. He said, "I still don't think this is a good idea. I still think you deserve better than this. But… if you really want to try… I'm too damned selfish to push you away, even though I should."

Combeferre just smiled and leaned forward from the bench to cup Courfeyrac's face in his hands and to seal that bargain with another kiss. When they separated, both were a little short of breath. 

Courfeyrac sighed, shook his head. "I still think you're nuts."

"For wanting to marry you? I was nuts for that already. How can this possibly make it any worse?"

Delivered with a deadpan look, those words finally accomplished what nothing else had done since Combeferre awoke -- they made Courfeyrac smile. Not one of those beaming grins that he doled out to all of their friends and 90% of the general population, but a small tender smile that just barely lifted the corners of his lips and lit his eyes aglow -- the special smile which was only for Combeferre. And that made it all worth it.

Courfeyrac leaned over to close the distance between them and placed a butterfly brush of a kiss at the corner of Combeferre's lips. "Jerk." Another smile, wider this time. "I love you, too."


End file.
